This story begins on a sultry summer day of the mid 90s in Madhyamgram. Still a quiet afterthought on the map of Calcutta, before the city’s urgency found its way here. A town that moved at its own unhurried rhythm. A lone cinema hall with fading posters that changed less often than they should. Bagan baris set behind moss-streaked walls—once grand, now gently surrendering to time, their verandahs shaded by overgrown trees, their stories held in silence.
And among them, Chhotomashi’s home—tucked away in a quiet, time-stops-still corner.
A house with cool red oxide floors that held the memory of every footstep. Spacious rooms where light entered softly and stayed. Long, shaded verandahs that framed the afternoon like a painting. And beyond it all, a backyard—verdant, breathing, almost untamed. It was less a house, more a quiet world held together by shade, breeze, and the unspoken rhythms of living.
By midday, the town would yield to the brutal heat. Shops pulled down their corrugated shutters with a final metallic sigh. Tea stalls fell silent, benches left warm in the sun. Even the strays retreated into thin slivers of shade—under a parked cycle, beside a crumbling wall—waiting for the sun to loosen its grip.
And then, almost inevitably—the power would go.
The fan would slow, hesitate, and surrender.
The room would gather heat with quiet intent.
Humidity wrapped itself around you like a second skin—dense, unrelenting. Sweat would bead, then gather, then simply stay. Shirts clung. The air did not move.
And so, out came the haat pakha.
Woven cane, frayed at the edges, held with practised ease. A slow, rhythmic motion—back and forth, back and forth—creating a breeze that was as much sound as relief. Someone would always sit by the window, fanning not just themselves, but the room—the moment itself—into a bearable softness.
And yet, life found its ways.
From somewhere beyond the mango groves came the sharp, joyful splash of children diving into ponds—one after another, brown limbs slicing through green water, laughter travelling far beyond what the still air should allow. The ponds themselves held a different kind of coolness, ancient and patient, fringed with water hyacinths and stories.
Then, faint at first, and then unmistakable—the sing-song call of the ice cream man. A cycle fitted with a metal box, painted in impossible colours. He moved slowly, almost ceremonially, as if he knew he was the only interruption the afternoon would permit. Children ran out with coins clutched in damp palms, choosing between orange, kalakhatta, raspberry—each one more luminous than the last, each one melting too fast, dripping down wrists and elbows in sweet, sticky trails.
Now, back to Chhotomashi’s backyard—
a world unto itself.
And in that world, the lau vine reigned.
It did not grow so much as it claimed.
One moment it seemed contained, almost polite—and the next, it had travelled. Across the low boundary wall, over the bamboo trellis, curling its way into spaces it had no formal permission to enter. Its tendrils were explorers, delicate and determined, reaching out, clasping, holding on. There was something deeply reassuring about that quiet conquest.
The flowers were our first introduction. Pale, almost translucent, with a softness that invited touch. We plucked them, played with them, held them against the sun—petals glowing faintly like captured light. Childhood knew no restraint, and yet the plant forgave us.
Later came the leaves—transformed in Chhotomashi’s kitchen into lau shaak posto. Silken, nutty, glistening faintly with mustard oil. A dish that carried both the greenness of the vine and the quiet depth of posto.
And then, the fruit itself—
cooked by Mashi in a myriad different ways.
And today, it is her lau shuktani. The bottle gourd, softened just enough. A whisper of mustard paste—not sharp, but rounded. Panchforon releasing its quiet, earthy aroma. A hint of radhuni—that unmistakable, almost sacred note. And at the very end, a generous dollop of ghee melting into the warmth.
It was not rich. It was not elaborate.
But on those long, oppressive afternoons—when the fans had stilled, the haat pakha kept time, and the air hung heavy with heat—it felt like grace.
A simple summer meal—rice, lau shuktani, and maacher jhol—by a shaded verandah,
while somewhere behind, the vine continued its gentle, unstoppable journey.
Lau Shuktani
Ingredients
Method
- Cut the lau into thin roundels, then shred them lengthwise.
- Lightly dry roast 1 tsp radhuni and crush it gently.
- Soak 1tsp of both yellow and black mustard in warm water for 15 minutes. Drain from the water and ground to smooth paste.
- Heat mustard oil with 1 tsp ghee in a pan. Add bay leaves, 1/2 tsp black mustard seeds, and 1/2 tsp radhuni. Let them splutter.
- Add the lau, sprinkle a little salt, and mix in 1 tsp ginger paste. Cook over low flame until the lau turns 90% tender. No extra water is needed, as the lau will release its own moisture.
- Add mustard paste and cook for 5 odd minutes.
- Once perfectly cooked, add sugar, the remaining ginger paste, the rest of the ghee, and the fried bori. Sprinkle the crushed roasted radhuni on top.
- Switch off the flame, cover, and let it rest for 10 minutes before serving.
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